Writer Wars! (Sorry, That's the Most Creative Title I Could Come Up With This Week.)

REALLY, BUTTS?! I ask you to write a short story about attempting the impossible, and NO ONE WRITES ABOUT SKIING THROUGH A REVOLVING DOOR?! Color me disappointed (mostly because I purchased a set of skies AND a freestanding revolving door in anticipation of your responses, and now I have no idea what to do with them. And believe you me, freestanding revolving doors do not come cheap). But my inconsequential complaints aside, you all produced yet another stunning crop of short fiction, and I couldn't be prouder. Here are last week's top-shelf stories!

They said you must be dead in the head
To try and make an aeroplane out of a bed.
To which I doffed my hat and sighed
Wondering if my physics teacher had lied.
“Tis easy!” he had hollered
As he secured the leash on the cat he had collared.
“Simply use the sheets for wings,
Wait until the pillow sings.
Do not forget the dusty bunnies
For they are what give the trip the funnies.
When the mattress gives its first snore
That is the time for the engines to roar.”

At hearing this, my soul aflame
I wondered if sleep would ever be the same.
My street could double as a runway
I smiled with glee at what the neighbors would say.

“You must throw it from the third floor of an odd numbered house,
Be careful to avoid squashing a mouse.
In the second month on the thirty-seventh day
This is when gravity likes to play.”

Eagerly I waited, counting the sunrises on my fingers,
Serenaded by a horde of annoying little singers.
Finally the day arrived!
For so long had my hopes thrived.
Away to the window I flew like a flash
Ripping open the blinds and throwing aside the sash.
The sun was gold,
Mosquitoes strolled,
And I knew this day was it.

With a scarf and a shrug and a bed flying kit,
I precariously perched it on the window and had one last snuggly sit.
Then I huffed and I puffed and I flapped my reins
I felt my life’s blood pounding in my veins.

Off I went! There I flew!
One could have easily mistaken me for an enormous cuckoo.
My mattresses snored, my engine roared, over the land I went,
Feeling my genius well-spent.

Then alas! Engine trouble!
I knew I’d have to think magically on the double!
“Chromosomes!” I thought! “Chromosomes!”
“That’s what separates beds from gnomes!”

I thought and I thought
Of all the beautifully socks I’d bought.
Then down I went, and with a great crash
I saw a beam of white light in a flash!

Up a tunnel I traveled, to a place of cloud.
The harp music was really quite loud.
And thus I ruminated: “If this is Heaven,
Then at least I get to see my pet goldfish, Evan!”

Dagger's Choice: agentoboe! Witty and suspenseful—and I never saw the ending coming! LOVE IT! (And also love that asit2posted a pic of herself achieving the impossible feat from the story!)

Light filtered lazily through a dusty window. The night was thick with the smell of barbeque smoke and mischief, if mischief had a smell. I’d like to think that it would have a pleasant but spicy aroma, not unlike Old Spice.
Strewn on the floor of the warehouse were empty candy bar wrappers and the occasional pile of guano, which we were more than careful to avoid. Other than the periodical clap-your-hands-over-your-ears moments when a plane would fly over the warehouse, it was a peaceful and somewhat cozy meeting place. And here we were, sitting cross-legged on the floor as Brandon passed around “sin in a bottle,” as my grandmother would say. I imagined her wrinkled face in front of mine, her eyebrows furrowing as she prepared to chide me on my imperfections. I took a swig. Imaginary Nana clutched her saggy bosom in distress.
“Whoa now! Easy, tiger,” Heath laughed, clapping a hand on my back as I coughed up half a lung.
“E-explain to me exactly how you can stand swallowing that bottle of elephant piss,” I wheezed. Imaginary Nana crossed her arms, her point made.
“Oh, come now, Dyna. It’s just whiskey…” Brandon chuckled. He snatched the bottle away from me and downed the whole thing. I often asked myself why I continued to hang out with Brandon. Lately, the excuses I had been making became few and far between. As I opened my mouth, prepared to reply with a snappy retort, Sylvia rubbed her hands together and cleared her throat.
“It’s time.” Her voice, however small, resounded in the abandoned warehouse. Heath looked at her, his expression softening.
“Yeah—Sylvia’s right. It’s time,” he echoed. I rolled my eyes.
Brandon reached into his pack and withdrew a long dagger in a glittering sheath. Eyeing us excitedly, he pulled out the dagger…and laid it on the sooty floor.
“Tonight,” he whispered for dramatic effect, “we achieve the impossible.” With a flourish, he spun the dagger. The sharp tip trailed slightly on the concrete, leaving a circular etching into the thin layer of grime. There was a plethora of similar circles around the warehouse.
The blade began to slow down, and it finally stopped with its point in my direction. The others hooted. I wrinkled my nose.
“Alright, Dyna! Let’s do this!” Brandon hopped up from his sitting position and proceeded to do a little jig around the circle. I might have been able to utilize my snarky attitude, had I not been so nervous.
“I don’t know…maybe I’m not ready for this,” I protested, remaining in my sitting position.
“Nonsense!” said Sylvia. Heath scooted closer to her, placing his arm around her thin shoulders. I shook my head fervently.
“I can’t do it. I don’t know how,” I said weakly.
Brandon squatted in front of me and held my face in his hands. My heart seemed to stop. Maybe this is why I still hung out with Brandon.
“You can do it. I know you can.” He tugged me to my feet. Something inside me stirred. I can do this.
“Here I go,” I said, raising my arm above my head. I bent it at a painful angle, the elbow jutting sharply forward.
“Go! Go!” chanted Sylvia and Heath. Brandon simply smiled.
My arm ached. My shoulder felt as if it were going to rip. I strained forward, harder, harder, and then…
I did it. I licked my elbow. The impossible had been achieved.

This week's prompt was inspired by hammncheese94 (aka the radiant Lord Mayor Hamm), who asked:

Dear most eminent and magnanimous Dagger,

Would you be so gracious as to give, for next time, a prompt with which I can incorporate some of my whovian joys? PUWEEZE! I mean like something involving an unexpected trip, or perhaps a fanciful dream-turned-reality, or maybe even just a fanfiction day!

Per his request, here's your mission: Write a short story or poem (500 words max) in which your two (no more than two!)favorite novels/shows/movies collide. You can mix characters, scenery, plot points, anything you want—the only rule is that your story MUST include some kind of competition (so, for example, Dumbledore could challenge Mr. Darcy to a breakdancing fight). The competition can be a battle of wits, an epic war, an athletic contest, a spelling bee, etc—get CREATIVE, butts!

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About the Author

Since 2010, Chelsea Dagger (known in real life as Chelsea Aaron) has been SparkLife's sweatiest editor. She's currently working on a how-to-kiss guide for teens, and when she's not conducting smooch-related research on her life-size Joseph Gordon-Levitt cardboard cutout, she's eating pancakes, stocking up on industrial-strength deodorant, and destroying everyone at Harry Potter trivia. (EXPECTO PATRONUM!)